


We built this house (with your hands, and your time, and your blood)

by Plexus (toitsu)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Low Chaos, M/M, Rats, This was supposed to be crack, corvo's eating habits, lots of rats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:17:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toitsu/pseuds/Plexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a dead rat in your bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We built this house (with your hands, and your time, and your blood)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zlu_and_Luff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zlu_and_Luff/gifts).



> so it really was supposed to be crack, because corvo/eating is my otp  
> and fandom often jokes how other characters must be weirded out by his eating habits (especially rats)  
> and i thought, what if they just rolled with it, and even started supplying him with rats.  
> this is the result.
> 
> it's not crack. 
> 
> title from 'Virgin' by Manchester Orchestra

i.

There is a dead rat in your bed. Dead rats on your desk. Dead rats on the floor, on the doorstep; neat little piles on dirty plates.

There is a dead rat in your bed.

i.

You tried to explain, at first, carefully (because even here you can't just proclaim, _I'm a witch, a heretic_ ), that you do it out of necessity. _It's fine_ , they said, and misunderstood, _it's fine, Corvo, sir, you don't have to be ashamed._

_She thinks the Coldridge changed you_ , the Heart says, when Callista is near; _she thinks you are not right in the head._  

_(wonders if perhaps it will be human flesh next)_

The admiral doesn't care, so long as you are willing to do his bidding; Martin says, _we've all been there._

i.

Cecelia brings the plates. Tries to reassure you, _we do what we can to survive. But, do you want me to cook them at least? All that fur – isn't it nasty?_

i.

The first time you think little of it; the city is teeming with them, and though you thought the pub relatively clean, you must have been mistaken.

You throw them in fire;  the smell makes you gag, but you don't dwell on it further.

i.

They won't stop bringing you rats.

_I saw a swarm near the abandoned apartments, sir, thought you might like to know._

You don't want to know. You don't – you don't do it because you like it, you don't do it out of hunger; the taste of it – fur, muscle, viscera – revolts you.

(you can feel the heartbeats when you close your teeth around their wrigling bodies – _thud thud scratch squeak_ )

(the inside of your mouth feels like a minced meat. The rats are vicious in their fear.)

You can't explain, though. _A rat is a rat, what matters the color,_ they ask; _are you alright, Corvo, sir?_

( _will you turn a madman; will you bring the plague; will you start to weep)_

i.

It starts to stink, your room, the whole attic, like sewers, like the city – it smells like death.

(It smells like you.)

You sleep on the rooftop one night, wake with your whole body aching.

_You're acting silly, Corvo._

You don't care. You cannot abide it, the stink and the rot, not here, not here, this place that is temporarily safe; you have nightmares enough.  

(you bring terror everywhere else; the ghost that exposes the ugliest things in this city. You don't want to infect this shelter)

_You can sleep in my shack,_ Samuel offers, _I can sleep in my boat._

_Absolutely not,_ you say. _I'm fine._

(You're fine. You're fine. It will pass. They'll stop. It will pass. You're fine. You have much more important things to worry about.)

i.

You sleep on the roof. It starts to rain.

i.

_You are being ridiculous,_ he says in the dead of the night, guiding you down the stairs; _don't be stubborn. I don't mind giving you my bed._

He leads you in the dark, through the rain; _don't leave,_ you plead. _We can share._

What does he see when he looks at you?  (A madman, a heretic, a broken man? A bloody sword and a marked hand? The last chance to salvage this place, or just death?)

What does he see?

( _the boatman has a good heart. And respects you)_

Whatever it is, he acquisces with a sigh.

For the next few days, you sleep back to back.

i.

You learn in the dark, the steady beat of his heart; his even breathing lulls you to sleep. This is what wakes you, among the bricks and the rats – his absence at your side.

( _I'm sorry something terrible, Corvo.)_

You don't have time to think of him. You need to get back to Emily.

(But if he's not safe and sound when all is said and done - )

i.

His parting words make you feel ashamed.

_(-but somehow you managed to get through all this mess without losing sight of what really matters.)_

Because you are not noble, you don't have a good heart. It's not mercy, what you gave instead of taking lives. 

_(For that, I respect you.)_

He shouldn't. You with your rarely used blade, you with your vicious rats.

(rats that you still eat, will probably eat until there is no left in this city. You will cleanse this house. With your teeth, and bare arms.)

He shouldn't respect you. But it still warms you that he does.

i.

Samuel is old and you are tired; you both have scars and the world is still cold and filthy and gray. But the pub is warm and clean and dry, and you only wish for a moment of respite.

People are hesitant, milling about, asking for drinks.

 You catch his eyes, he winks.

_No poison in this one, sir, promise,_ he says and hands you a glass.

For the first time in forever you laugh.

You tell him, _I'd like to stay the night. Do you still sleep in your old shack?_

i.

He is old and you are tired, and the world is still not kind.

But with Emily on the throne and between the two of you in the dark, it might just turn out fine.

 

 


End file.
